


Lips of an Angel

by Eloarei



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Between Seasons/Series, Dreams, F/M, M/M, Miscommunication, Season 5/6
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-09
Updated: 2012-11-09
Packaged: 2017-11-18 07:24:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/558371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eloarei/pseuds/Eloarei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean was right. He should have come earlier. He shouldn't have hesitated. He should have told Dean how he really felt before time had had the chance to put a gaping chasm between them, straight through whatever bond they'd had.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lips of an Angel

**Author's Note:**

> I think I meant this to be something other than it ended up being, but oh well. Inspired by the song of the same name. Anyway, this takes place at some random time between Season 5 and Season 6.

Maui was lovely this time of year, whatever time of year it _was_. The picturesque palm trees swayed in the gentle, fresh-scented breeze, and exotic fish practically lined up to bite at your hook, as if eager to show off their glinting, metallic scales. Dean was quite enjoying himself. 

Castiel also thought it was nice, if a little inaccurate. He stood behind Dean for a few moments, tilting his head here and there to nudge the topography in a slightly more geographically-correct direction, then turned his gaze to consider the human, the hunter, and wonder whether his throat (apparently tight from 'disuse') would loosen up enough for him to speak, or if the man would notice his presence first. 

As nice of a Maui day as it was, and as calm as Dean appeared to be, Castiel doubted Dean would ever have reason to turn around, and for a sickening minute he debated just leaving him to his hard-earned peace. After a brief and very quiet internal quarrel, Castiel settled on encouraging a conspicuous chilly wind from his direction to rustle Dean's sun-bleached hair. As he expected, it was enough, conspicuous enough, cold enough, dangerous enough of a breeze to jog the hunter's sleepy memory. He jerked around in his lounge chair to face the foul creature who had snuck up on him, and was possibly more annoyed than relieved (and certainly more than expected) to see an angel instead. 

“Get out of my dream, Cas,” he told the trench-coated ethereal being. 

“I'm sorry,” Castiel said, offering a tiny apologetic quirk of a smile. “I was hoping we could talk.” 

Dean rolled his eyes. “You could have at least left us in Maui,” he said with a sigh as he sat up in bed and picked absently at his cotton pajama bottoms. “I tend to prefer more exotic locales for my dreams. And in my bedroom, next to my sleeping girlfriend, isn't exactly an ideal place for an erotic interlude. Not to mention you're a little too clothed.” He shook his head in mock-disappointment, but his expression was otherwise quite guarded. 

“Your definition of 'talk' seems to have changed since we last met,” the angel half-joked. “But you bring up a valid point. I'm sure you'd rather not wake your Lisa...” His eyes flickered to her on the far side of the bed, out of the light of the window in front of which he stood, and lingered a moment as he considered her beautiful but normal, human features. “Dean. Does she make you happy?” 

The human man sat up straighter from his comfortable slouch. “Why the hell would you ask me that? Why the hell would you care?” He narrowed his eyes in Castiel's direction, but the light from the window wasn't seeming to reach the angel, and Dean could just barely make out the frown on his face. 

“Your happiness is important to me,” Castiel said, cocking his head in confusion over why that much was not obvious to Dean. “Truth be told, it's one of the reasons I have left you alone, here with your new family.” 

“I figured you were just busy with your war.” Dean didn't bother to mention that visiting his dreams every week, in various levels of dress and lust, didn't really amount to 'leaving him alone'. Clearly _this_ Cas was from a different continuity than the one who filled his sleep with passionate embraces. This one liked to say things that hit a little too close to home, and keep a very un-sexy five foot distance. 

Castiel looked unsure for a moment before he let his gaze wander from Dean's shoulder to his face. “I am. That is why I've come to visit you tonight.” He paused. Dean waited, frowning in annoyance. He crossed his arms. Castiel continued. “I'd like you to join me.” 

Several responses scrolled through Dean's mind. He wondered what he, a mere human, righteous though he may have been, could do in an angel civil war. His mind presented him with an image of a beetle in a den of screeching eagles, trying to get a squeak in edgewise as the birds tore at each other with claws and beaks as sharp as razors. He briefly considered saying how pointless he thought it would be, but then became angry with himself for even wasting his time trying to reason with an illusion, opting for glaring scathingly at the Castiel-shaped dream beside his bed. “I don't have to have this conversation with you,” he said instead, feeling silly for even justifying himself that much. The situation continued to increasingly annoy him as the image of Castiel stood and stared at him. “If you wanted my help, you should have come _months_ ago. You should've come in the daylight. You should've come before I had the chance to get comfortable here, instead of just letting me _dream_ that you cared. No, I'm not gonna join you. It's too damn late for that, and even if you, real-you, dropped down from Heaven and actually asked me, I'd still tell you no. I've waited too long. Now go away and don't bother coming back until you're ready to shut up and fuck me on a tropical island.” 

Castiel's eyes narrowed and he cocked his head somewhat to the side, processing Dean's strangely honest flood of angry words, and the fact that he didn't seem to regret them at all. Forget regret, Dean didn't seem to care if Castiel had even heard him. He'd simply laid back down and turned away from the window, eyes shut but shoulders still stiff. The angel thought for a moment about reaching out, touching Dean's shoulder comfortingly or shaking him from his denial, something physical to prove he was real and not just an apparition born from Dean's..., what? Longing? His loneliness, despite the comfortable life he'd built here with his Lisa? But then he considered that life, again, and considered Dean's unrestrained words, and decided that Dean was right. He should have come earlier. He shouldn't have hesitated. He should have told Dean how he really felt (that Dean was amazing, resourceful, his presence energizing, that there was nobody else he'd rather fight beside) before time had had the chance to put a gaping chasm between them, straight through whatever bond they'd had. 

So he didn't reach out, not more than an unconscious twitch of his fingers, perhaps some muscle memory of this human body, who had known and dealt with the grief of loved ones. No, it was better, Castiel decided, to let Dean think he was just a dream. Then when he awoke in the morning, he could dismiss everything they'd said, not be bothered to think about them. Castiel knew Dean well enough by now to know both that the man was far fuller of complex emotions than he'd ever let on, and that he was loathe to admit most of them to even himself but, apparently, in his dreams. And Castiel had not lied in telling Dean that his happiness was important to him. Best to leave him to his blissful ignorance. 

“I'll do that,” he said quietly, just to have something other than emptiness fill the air between them. “Did you have anywhere in mind?” he asked, despite not necessarily planning to have sex with Dean. 

The visible corner of Dean's mouth quirked a bit at Castiel's question, which he understood as an acquiescent joke. “The Mediterranean,” he replied, eyes still closed but not clenched. “Be nice to try something new. We could go now.”   
He felt a soft pressure on his leg and envisioned the nicest Mediterranean beach he could imagine, but when he heard the rustle of the sheets in front of him, he opened his eyes back on his bedroom and found Lisa blinking at him blearily. 

“Who were you talking to?” she asked softly, sighing and rubbing a hand over her eyes. She brought her other hand up to Dean's shoulder and rubbed it lightly. 

Dean glanced over his shoulder, back towards the window. There was no wind, no rustle of invisible feathers, just the usual emptiness. 

“No one,” he said, turning back to Lisa and huffing a soft sigh. 

Lisa nodded and settled back into her pillow, never entirely believing Dean's assurance that things were fine or normal but understanding and quietly accepting him nonetheless. 

As he expected, Dean saw Castiel again the next week, coat and suit jacket missing, shirt unbuttoned, lounging in a white-washed Grecian villa. Castiel saw Dean each night, writhing in freshly-laundered sheets that smelled of suburbia. They missed each other greatly.


End file.
